


be the ocean where i unravel

by acertainheight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Crushes, F/F, First Time, Romantic Friendship, a lot of feelings, semi-fluffy smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 03:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6453868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainheight/pseuds/acertainheight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started small enough. A laugh, a flash of a smile, a joke: <i>Get her a night at the Blooming Rose—on me.</i> But it didn't take very long until Bethany was in over her head. (Or: the one where Isabela takes Bethany to the Blooming Rose, and Bethany blurts out that she'd rather be with Isabela instead.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	be the ocean where i unravel

**Author's Note:**

> this started as a quick fill to a prompt, intended to be nothing but hasty smut, but somewhere along the way I fell madly in love with Isabela/Bethany and suddenly had to write all sorts of feelings into it. (always with the feelings!) sorely tempted to toss all my WIPs to the side and continue with some long romantic arc for these two, but that might be a bit self-indulgent. still... one of these days... (title from [x](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/lykkeli/ifollowrivers.html))

There had been something about the easy way Isabela said it, the bright note of laughter in her voice: _Hawke, you've been holding out on the poor girl! Get her a night at the Blooming Rose—on me._ Something about the very thought of it. But Bethany had stammered something noncommittal, and then her brother had turned around with that aghast look of his, and that had been the end of it.

Only—it hadn't. Bethany had thought about it for days, lain awake and stared at the ceiling and tried to imagine. The idea had wormed its way into her mind and taken root, until it was all she could think about.

It had taken nearly a week (spent hesitating, re-thinking, practicing her lines in her head) before she made the first move. She'd felt strange walking into the Hanged Man on her own, without her brother and their friends around her—it seemed darker and louder, unfamiliar. And then she'd spotted Isabela at the bar and the whole room seemed to light up more with every step Bethany took towards her. _Little Hawke,_ Isabela had said, beaming and lifting her mug in greeting. _What are you doing here all alone?_

Her practiced line— _I want to take you up on your offer—_ failed her when Isabela stared back blankly. But when she explained herself, stammering and stumbling, Isabela's eyes lit up with recognition and then something like amusement.

 _Oh, sweetness,_ she'd said, voice warm with delight, _I thought you'd never ask._

And that was how they ended up here, making their way into the Blooming Rose, Bethany's heart thundering in her chest. It seems absurd, Bethany thinks, in hindsight. But here she is. She licks her dry lips and tries to remember to breathe; it's not an easy task.

“Don't worry,” Isabela declares, oblivious to Bethany's sudden nerves. “We'll have so much fun tonight, darling. Just look around and tell me when you see something you like.”

“Someone, you mean,” Bethany says doubtfully. It's all starting to feel like a terrible mistake. She lingers for a moment in the doorway, glancing around the packed central room. When she looks ahead again, Isabela's moved ahead, with the crowd closing in around her. Bethany's chest tightens at the thought of losing track of Isabela and she pushes forward in a sudden panic.

“Isabela,” she calls, cheeks reddening at the sound of her own voice—high and frantic, almost unrecognizable. But Isabela doesn't turn; she's cheerfully chattering away, gesturing at something or someone in the distance, her voice drowned out by the volume of the crowd and by the racing of Bethany's heart. So Bethany tries again, pushing between two leering men with a mumbled apology until she can press up behind Isabela and catch her by the arm: “Isabela!”

“Hm?” Isabela turns, cut off mid-sentence. “Did you say something, sweetness?”

Bethany swallows. “I don't want to be here.”

“Oh, don't worry! It'll be fun. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to—uh, feel terrible.” Her smile turns her eyes to molten gold, and Bethany feels her palms grow hot and damp.

“No, I really don't. It's not... I don't want to—” Her voice drops to a whisper, her face burning: “—lose my virginity here. It doesn't feel right.”

Isabela purses her lips and tilts her head. She looks so lovely, light and shadow dancing across her face. “Don't be afraid, darling. I'll take care of you, you know I will. I know this handsome elf—he'll take it slow and sweet, make you feel just as special as I know you are. If you're having second thoughts, of course, we can turn around right now, but if you're feeling _ashamed_ , you really needn't—”

“I, um, I want,” Bethany attempts, her voice a soft croak of a whisper, but Isabela goes on; Bethany can't hear a word over the pounding in her ears. “I just, when I pictured it, I sort of—er, I mean, I dreamed it would be—” But Isabela is still going, and at last Bethany lifts her voice to a shout: “You!”

Isabela grinds to a halt. “What?”

“You! I want it to be you!”

“You want me to what?”

Bethany glances over her shoulder, but no one seems to have noticed her outburst. Reluctantly, nervously, she meets Isabela's eyes again. “I want you to, um, be my first. My first time.”

“Oh!” Isabela pauses, her gaze clouding over in thought. “Is that so?”

“I mean it. I've thought about it loads of times—I mean, not in a vulgar way, really—” But nothing comes out right, and Bethany crosses her arms over her chest, stuttering to a halt, whole body hot with embarrassment.

“Well, I'd hope it was in a vulgar way!” Isabela laughs, and her face brightens with mirth again. She turns Bethany around, guiding her towards the door with a gentle hand on the small of her back. “Come on, sweetness, we'd better find somewhere else to talk about this. Someplace a little less loud and moan-y.”

Bethany can feel all her nerve leave her the moment they step back into the cool night air; she takes a shuddering, steadying breath, and glances at Isabela sideways. But Isabela's staring her down intently, and she gently curls a finger under Bethany's chin, tilting her head up to meet her stare.

“Bethany,” she says, soft, “would you like to come back to the Hanged Man with me? Or would you like me to take you home?”

“I want to come with you.” Bethany tries to hold her gaze; she thinks she could get lost in Isabela's eyes, so lost she could never find her way out. She straightens her shoulders, tries to stand a little taller. If she can _act_ confident, maybe that will be enough.

“Well, then.” Isabela's hand slides up to cup Bethany's cheek, thumb skimming feather-light across her cheekbone. The smallest of smiles flickers across her lips. “I'd rather hoped you would ask. I don't think I'd trust anyone but myself to treat you right, darling.”

Bethany feels like her heart might burst.

It's easier, having it out in the open. Bethany feels lighter already as they make their way through the city. But she's still as nervous as she's ever been, and she's immensely grateful for the unexpected gesture of Isabela's hand warm around hers. She'd expected the reassurance, the encouraging enthusiasm; she hadn't expected the tenderness, and she says as much, shy.

“Oh, sweetness, you don't deserve anything less.” Isabela smiles at her, tugging her close so their hips bump. They're close enough to see the Hanged Man now, but the cheerful warmth of Isabela's smile is enough to push Bethany's worry away for one more moment.

“I just thought it would be different. More like the way you talk about it. Sex, I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sort of... Fast and dirty, I suppose.”

Isabela holds the door of the Hanged Man open for her, guiding her through the crowd; Bethany's relieved to not see any familiar faces tonight, and she lets herself lean unabashedly into Isabela's touch. “Oh, dearest little Hawke, you're not some barroom shag up against the wall. Leave your expectations at the door.”

Bethany steps into Isabela's room and closes her eyes, breathing in deeply, as Isabela latches the door behind them. Her room feels different from the rest of the bar, a sweetness mingling with the smell of smoke, and Bethany's heart steadies as she stands there until she can open her eyes again.

The room is tidy—nearly empty but for the provided bed, a kettle beside the smoldering coals in the fireplace, one small trunk in the corner. It occurs to Bethany then just how unsettled Isabela still is. The thought makes her chest tighten just a little: Isabela's ready to run the first chance she gets. Isabela distracts her with a gentle squeeze of her waist.

“Cup of tea, sweetness? Or something stronger?”

“Um.” Bethany hesitates. “Tea would be nice, actually. I want to remember everything.”

Isabela smiles. She takes Bethany's cheeks in her hands, going up on her tiptoes to kiss her. Bethany forgets how to breathe, how to think about anything other than Isabela's lips against hers, the subtle way Isabela's hands shift to tangle in her hair.

And then she pulls away. “Make yourself comfortable. Sit on the bed, kick off your boots, whatever helps you breathe easy.”

Bethany obeys, leaving her boots by the doorway and undoing her mail, setting it by her boots. She perches like a bird on the edge of the bed, watching as Isabela busies herself with the tea. She catches herself unconsciously touching her mouth, fingers against her lips as if to remember the pressure of Isabela's on her own, and she quickly tucks her hands under her thighs. When Isabela crouches to poke at the fire, her tunic slides up, revealing the whole dark expanse of her thigh to her hips, and Bethany finds herself breathlessly trailing her gaze over the swath of bare skin. She's had this dream a thousand times before; she's still half-surprised to feel Isabela's sheets beneath her, even now.

She's so entranced, so utterly fixated on the subtlest shifts of Isabela's hands or legs and so lost in her own imagination, that she's surprised to at last look up and see Isabela in front of her with a cup of tea in her hands. She accepts it, grateful, and peers at the rich creamy orange of the cup. “This smells strange. What is it?”

“It's Rivaini. Heavy on the spice and the milk, nothing like the dirty water you call tea here. Don't ask how much I paid to have this smuggled into Kirkwall.” She pulls a face, and Bethany laughs. It's so _easy_ , being here with Isabela, so comfortable and familiar. She wouldn't want to be anywhere else in all the world.

The tea is sweet and strong, and with just one sip, Bethany can feel the soothing warmth of it easing her muscles and gently wiping the tension from her body. “Mm,” she says, surprised. “It's good.”

Isabela joins her on the bed, settling back among her pillows. “I told you. Come on, then, make yourself comfortable. Scoot back here with me.”

Bethany hesitates and then obeys, careful not to spill the tea as she moves to settle between Isabela's legs, pressed to Isabela's chest. “That's alright?”

“Perfect, sweetness.” She presses her lips soft against the nape of Bethany's neck and Bethany can feel a slow shiver make its way through her whole body. “Can I touch you?”

Bethany's eyelashes flutter. She takes another sip of tea. “Please.”

She's bracing herself for Isabela's touch, and she's surprised when Isabela's hands settle on her shoulders, gently kneading tense muscles, working down her back. The tea, the touch, the soothing stillness of the room—it's all so different from the wild rush of the Rose. Bethany's never been so relieved in all her life.

“I'm sorry for taking up your whole night,” she says, glancing anxiously over her shoulder at Isabela, who only smiles as bright as the sun. “I know it must be frustrating to go so slow.”

“Not a bit, sweetness. All done?”

“Mhm.” Bethany leans over and sets the teacup on the floor, tucking it safely under the rim of the bed. When she sits back up, Isabela wraps her arms around Bethany's middle.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good.” Bethany hesitates. “I'm not scared. I'm just nervous. Is that normal?”

Isabela's silent for a moment, gently nuzzling against Bethany's neck, lips grazing across the soft skin there. “It is. You're already better than some, if you're not scared. I was terrified my first time. Scared out of my mind.”

Bethany frowns and tries to imagine Isabela, scared of anything at all. “Really?”

“Mm,” Isabela confirms. She rocks from side to side, and Bethany presses close into the warm comfort of her embrace. “Nearly sick with fear. And it wasn't any good at all in the end. He didn't care that I was scared. In fact, I don't think he even noticed, or at least he didn't ask. He just took. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. The point is, I wouldn't want for you to ever feel like that—not once in your life. Tonight is all about what you want. Alright?”

“Alright.” Bethany hesitates. “What made you want to try again after that?”

Isabela laughs, but it doesn't quite sound like her—just a little sour—and Bethany suddenly feels like she's overstepped some line by asking. “Another story for another time, sweetness. Now it's your turn to speak. Tell me what you want from tonight.”

“Well, I want you. And, um, I suppose that's all, really.”

When Isabela laughs this time, it's sincere. “I don't believe you. You said you'd thought about it before. So what do you think about when you think about me? Take it from the beginning, darling.”

Bethany frowns. “Can't you just—tell me what to do? I thought that was your style.”

“All about you,” Isabela reminds her. “I don't want to guess at what you want. You're in charge, no objections.”

Bethany glances down at Isabela's arms, snug and tender around her, and takes a deep breath. It's easier, somehow, to not be looking right at her. She carefully folds her hands over Isabela's. “I, um... I think about you on top of me. And you kiss me for a long time, without even really touching me. Just kissing. And when you do start to touch me, it's so slow. You talk to me the whole time and tell me it's going to be alright. That sort of thing.”

“And?” Isabela prompts, kissing along Bethany's shoulder where her tunic's slipped down.

“That's it, really.” Bethany can feel herself blushing again. Better to leave out the more elaborate details of her fantasies.  “I'm not really sure... Well, I don't think I know what exactly two women do. Do you just use your hand?”

“Bethany!” Isabela cries, voice sharp with surprise; she sounds like Bethany just admitted to sprouting fur under the full moon. “What do you mean, you don't know?”

“I've been—sheltered, I suppose.” It sounds silly leaving her lips. She turns around to face Isabela, smiling sheepishly. “How was I supposed to find out?”

“Well, then!” Isabela utters the exclamation like a curse. She pauses for a moment, and then she smiles. She begins to undo the laces of her corset, slowly tugging them loose. “You'll find out tonight. Six things, remember? We'll start with one or two.”

Bethany stares wide-eyed at the growing triangle of bare skin of Isabela's chest. She swallows hard but can't find the strength to look up. “Why are you undressing? And what are we going to do tonight?”

“I thought it might make you feel a little more comfortable if I got naked first.” Isabela grins. “Do you mind?” When Bethany rapidly shakes her head _no,_ she continues: “I'm going to kiss you just like you want. Touch you. Do whatever you like. And then when you're feeling ready, I'm going to use my mouth on you. We'll save hands for another time.”

“Oh,” Bethany says. Her brow furrows. “Your mouth? Won't that be... Will it taste bad?”

Isabela looks scandalized at the suggestion. “Little Hawke, you've got lots of learning to do. But you're in luck. I'm a fantastic teacher.” At last she tugs the final lace loose and her corset drops away; she pulls at the laces of her tunic, underneath, and it too falls away, her bare breasts spilling forth where before they had strained against her top.

She looks so different like this, naked but for her jewelry, stripped of the clothing she wears like armor—her waist wider without the corset binding it, curves more pronounced. She looks so _hard_ sometimes, utterly untouchable, inscrutable face as sharp as her knives; here, she looks so much softer. Strikingly, stunningly beautiful. Bethany reaches out and then yanks her hand back, embarrassed by her own impulse. “Can I—”

“Mm,” Isabela says, smiling. “Anything you'd like.”

And so Bethany reaches out again, carefully loosening the knot of Isabela's bandanna and pulling it away to let her hair flow loose. Dark curls spill over her shoulders, and Bethany runs her fingers through Isabela's hair. She looks younger with her hair down, Bethany thinks, all the hardness in her face softened by the waves of her hair. “You're very beautiful,” she says at last. Isabela smiles and leans forward to kiss her, the briefest brush of lips.

“And you are lovelier than the sun, my dear. May I?”

Bethany lets Isabela guide her, hands on her hips, until she's on her back beneath her. Isabela straddles one of her thighs and stares down at her for just a moment, looking thoughtful.

“You're still certain, sweetness?”

“Of you?” Bethany smiles. “Always.”

Isabela looks surprised, flustered for the first time all night, but only for an instant. She leans down to kiss Bethany, slow and gentle, better than any dream. Bethany can feel the warmth of Isabela spilling into her, their bodies so close that she can hardly feel the distance between them. Isabela tastes of whiskey, of salt and smoke, of fantasies coming true. Bethany presses up into her involuntarily, moaning softly against her lips. Isabela kisses her carefully, like a lover, and somehow it's both nothing like what Bethany expected and better than she ever imagined.

“You can touch me if you want, you know,” Isabela murmurs against the corner of Bethany's mouth, and Bethany suddenly becomes aware of her hands knotted into fists by her sides. When she uncurls her fists, she realizes that her fingers are shaking. The thought of touching Isabela seems like it might shatter the dream—for half an instant, she worries she'll jerk awake in her bed in Gamlen's house, flushed and sweating and ashamed by her fantasies once again.

And then she settles her hands on Isabela's wide hips and she stops worrying. It has to be real. She could never imagine something as blissful as this: Isabela's lips on hers, still so gentle as to be almost chaste, Isabela's skin so soft beneath her hands, Isabela's bare breasts heavy on her chest, Isabela's hands tenderly cradling her head. It occurs to her then that Isabela's letting _her_ set the pace. If she wanted it, she thinks, Isabela would kiss her just like this all night—never anything more until Bethany voiced a want for it.

So she does: “You can touch me, too.”

Isabela studies her, as if searching for certainty, and then nods. “Can I undress you?”

“Yes, please.” Bethany pauses. “Just my tunic right now.”

“Of course.” Isabela undoes the front of Bethany's tunic with nimble, practiced fingers, and Bethany arches her back to allow Isabela to reach behind her. The tunic slips down easily enough, stalling at her waist. Bethany licks her lips, nervous, and searches Isabela's eyes for—anything, any sign of discontent or second thoughts. But Isabela just smiles down at her, fingers lightly skimming over Bethany's breastband, the last scrap of cloth between them. “Oh, sweetness, you're so beautiful. Don't look so shy. You've taken my breath away.”

Bethany doesn't quite believe her—Isabela, who's seen beautiful men and women all across the world, must say this to everyone she finds herself above. She's sure she can't compare, and she averts her eyes. “It's nice of you to say so.”

“It's true.” Isabela must see the doubt in her eyes; there's a fervent note to her voice. “Don't doubt yourself, my darling. You're lovely. Absolutely stunning.”

Bethany can feel herself going pink again. “Kiss me again and stop making me blush, please.”

Isabela laughs and stretches herself out across Bethany again, and this time there's a spark that lights Bethany's whole body on fire at the touch of skin on skin. Isabela's hands roam over her with a practiced ease and Bethany gasps, pressing up against her, alight with feelings she's never felt before. She wants to cry out—but then Isabela's lips settle on hers again, soft and sweet, a gentle balance to the white-hot shock of her hands, one now knotted in Bethany's hair, fingers blissfully stroking her scalp, and the other on her breast, teasing-light.

After a long minute, Isabela shifts her weight, just a little, and her thigh presses between Bethany's legs. Bethany inhales so sharply that she almost chokes.

“Oh!”

Isabela pulls away. “Are you alright?”

“What—what did you just do?”

“Nothing,” Isabela says, surprised. “Unless it was this?”

She shifts her leg again and Bethany moans from low in her throat, the sound vibrating within her from head to toe. “ _Oh._ Yes. That.”

“You're sensitive,” Isabela says, smiling fondly. “It's one thing to touch yourself. It's another thing to be touched, isn't it?”

“Um. Very much so.” She shivers. “Can you, um—?” She plucks at her breastband wordlessly.

“Your wish is my command,” Isabela says. She obeys, undoing the fabric, letting it slip from her hand to the floor.

Bethany's fingers twitch; she wants to reach and cover her breasts, some instinct of shame, but she resists and bites her lip to keep from speaking. Isabela touches her breasts gently, stroking round the sides, running her palms flat across them, and Bethany slowly relaxes into her touch.

“Tell me what feels good,” Isabela says, and then she flashes one of those smiles that dazes Bethany. “Be specific. Whatever you want, beautiful girl.”

Bethany shudders and arches up into her hot hands. “When I touch myself, when I'm thinking about you, I, um—I sort of... twist? Not very hard, just— _oh!_ Yes, mm, like that!”

Isabela chuckles low in her throat, rolling a nipple between two fingers, pinching and twisting with the lightest pressure. “Good?”

“Good,” Bethany agrees breathlessly.

Isabela leans in to kiss her again, long and sweet, and then she kisses along her jaw to right behind her ear, and then down to her neck. She unwinds Bethany's scarf and drops it to the floor, scattering kisses across her neck until she finds just the right spot. Isabela kisses, sucks, coaxes a series of moans past Bethany's lips, and then laughs warm and throaty against the sensitive skin of her neck. “Keep going?”

Bethany tries to answer but can't find her voice; she nods frantically instead, and Isabela continues to move lower with her kisses: across her clavicle, down the middle of her chest, and then at last to her breasts. Bethany reaches with trembling fingers and wraps her hands in Isabela's hair. When Isabela's mouth at last closes over a nipple, Bethany wants to scream; she gasps and bucks, arching up against Isabela's thigh, and the velvet warmth of her mouth mingled with the exquisite friction of her leg becomes too much to bear. Her hands tighten in Isabela's hair.

“Oh, yes, yes, please—”

Isabela moves between her breasts, coaxing each nipple to a pebbled point, and just when Bethany thinks she can't take it anymore, Isabela pulls back. She studies Bethany silently for a moment, and then she smiles, leaning forward just slightly so her thigh presses between Bethany's legs. “What do you want, sweetness?”

“It feels so good when you—” She shivers. “—do the thing with your leg. Can you touch me like that with your hand?”

“Mm,” Isabela agrees. She trails her hand down Bethany's body, lingering over all the spots that make her gasp, to at last rest on her thigh. “I'd love to get you out of these pants, too.”

“Um. Not yet.”

"Alright." Isabela nods without any hesitation. She slips her hand between Bethany's legs, pressing against her—just the steady pressure at first, until Bethany's moans and trembling settle back into heavy breathing. And then Isabela slowly curls her fingers up, rubbing against her. “Like that, darling?”

“Yes,” Bethany gasps. “I—I'm sorry if that's strange, I just—”

“Shh, shh,” Isabela murmurs, fingers working steadily against her, over her trousers. “Don't apologize for anything that makes you feel good. Trust me, I've heard it all before.”

Bethany nods, or tries to—but it's not all that easy to do things like nod or breathe or think, not with Isabela pressing soft kisses to her stomach and her chest and touching her in all the right ways. She can feel the wetness between her legs spreading with every second, every kiss, every touch; she's never once felt like this before, not in all the hours spent hesitantly touching herself, holding her breath, trying and always failing to find some distant peak. This—this is something else entirely. And she shudders and arches up into Isabela's touch and lets every thought fly right out of her mind.

“You can—um, you can undress me all the way. Please.”

Isabela pulls away, eyeing her. “Are you certain, sweetness?”

“Yes, yes, please. I'm ready.” Already, just mere instants without Isabela's hands and mouth hot against her, Bethany's wildly desperate for her; she shifts her hips, tries to press against her. “Please. I'm so—so—oh, Isabela, I've never felt like this.” Her voice is half a gasp, strained with the effort of holding back the loudest and most embarrassing sounds that threaten to spill past her lips.

Isabela looks serious, eyes dark, but then she smiles. “Well, then, let's see if we can make you feel even better.”

Isabela coaxes her trousers off slowly, one inch at a time, her fingertips hot against Bethany's skin. When the pants at last slip off her ankles, Bethany realizes that she's stopped breathing; she lets out all the air she didn't know she was holding.

“You'll go slow, won't you?”

“Of course, darling,” Isabela promises.

And she does.

She kisses Bethany's thighs first, soft and tender, until Bethany can feel the last bit of nervous tension draining from her; her muscles loosen, her jaw relaxes, her eyes fall shut, and she reaches to loosely loop her fingers in Isabela's hair. Every little kiss—each one closer, climbing her thighs—sends a spark through Bethany, building in a white-hot molten core in her center. She can hardly bear it; she tugs on Isabela's hair, almost shyly, trying to guide her. She's never felt such a desperate desire before, so wild and all-consuming that it's a _need._ And then Isabela runs her tongue along the length of her. For a moment, Bethany thinks she might pass out; a wild rush of indescribable sensation washes over her, threatens to utterly drown her.

Her eyes flutter open, and the sight of Isabela between her spread legs is enough to send her heart jumping staccato again. She can't hold back a ragged moan as Isabela's tongue curls around her, moves in soft circles and broad strokes, dismantling her and putting her back together.

The sudden shock doesn't fade; instead it steadies, levels off into one constant crescendo, as Isabela continues, still so gentle and so soft. Bethany cants her hips upwards, desperate for _something—_ some desperate pressure is building up within her, and the wild craving for release threatens to consume her.

“A little—a little more, please,” Bethany gasps, and Isabela obeys, the intensity building until a steady thrum courses through Bethany. Her moans pour forth in a near-constant stream now, and she tightens her thighs around Isabela, eager for every bit of friction, pressure, and pleasure. And then the thrum slowly turns into a tingling, a spark through her whole body, and her jaw goes slack as she loses herself in the sudden rush of anticipation.

When she comes, it hits her like a tidal wave. It feels like the first sparks of magic—a lightning-heat flashing up her arms, through her body, setting every inch of her on fire. A tightness—a release—one pulse after another—until her mind goes blank, and all of a sudden she's not thinking about twitching muscles and shaking hands; she's only thinking about Isabela, _Isabela—_

The cry tears out of her, wordless, so loud and raw that her throat burns. And then the last wave rolls off her and she remembers to take a breath. Everything feels fuzzy, like she's still underwater; her body aches from head to toe. Only distantly does she feel Isabela moving, sliding back up the bed to stretch beside her. For a long moment, she remains completely lost in the haze of her own mind. And then, slowly, she becomes aware of the warm softness of Isabela against her. It feels like an eternity before she manages to speak.

“Oh, Isabela,” Bethany breathes, her voice reduced to the softest crackle of a whisper. She presses close against her, until there's no space left between them, and buries her face into the crook of Isabela's neck. “That was—”

“Good?”

“Perfect.”

Isabela laughs; Bethany can feel the gentle vibrations of laughter in her chest, can hear the steady drum of her heartbeat. “I'm glad to hear it,” she says, and she loops her arms around Bethany. “You deserve nothing less than perfection, sweetness.”

Bethany tilts her head up and cracks an eye open; when their eyes meet, she smiles. “Can I stay here with you for a little? I know that's not your style, but I'll leave right after, I promise. I'm still dizzy.”

“Of course, darling. Take your time.” Isabela runs her fingers through Bethany's hair, grazing over her scalp and sending a contented shiver through her. Isabela chuckles. “You don't think I'd really kick you right out of bed, do you?”

“No. I really don't. You're so sweet,” Bethany mumbles against her. She's so tired—she can't remember the last time she felt so exhausted, like every bit of energy has been siphoned away. She wishes she could fall asleep right there, pressed to Isabela's chest. “So generous and kind, and I'm so glad you're my friend. You have such a big heart.”

Isabela's quiet for a moment. And then she laughs again, softer this time. “Well, don't go telling anyone you think so. I have a reputation to preserve.”

“I'll keep it to myself,” Bethany promises. She pauses. “Let's not tell anyone about this, alright? Can we keep it... just our own thing? For now, I mean.”

“Absolutely. Whatever you're most comfortable with.” Isabela kisses Bethany's forehead and Bethany bites back a smile.

“It's just nice to have the occasional secret. It's not often I get to have something of my own,” Bethany says. She can feel Isabela nod.

“I won't breathe a word.”

Bethany turns her next question over in her mind for a minute before she dares to voice it. “Could we... do you think we might do this again?”

Isabela laughs. “Any time you want—you know right where to find me.” She shifts, pulls back and catches Bethany under the chin with two fingers so their eyes meet. There's an edge to her smile, an echo of earlier. “I've got plenty more to teach you, if you'd like to learn.”

Bethany can feel her cheeks heating up, but she holds Isabela's hungry gaze. There's something in Isabela's smile that makes Bethany's confidence surge; Isabela's always made her feel like that, like Isabela sees something deep within her that no one else does. “I do. I want to learn everything. You made me feel so good and so... safe.”

“Well,” Isabela says softly, the word a sentence of its own. She slides her hand back from Bethany's chin to instead cup the back of her head, pulling her in for the briefest of kisses. “That was the plan, sweetness.”

Bethany stares at her for a moment, trying to memorize this picture: Isabela, hair tangled from Bethany's hands, eyes dark, lips half-parted, not an ounce of artifice in her gaze, so lovely she makes Bethany's chest ache. And then she exhales. “Alright. I should probably get going, shouldn't I?”

“Mm,” says Isabela, not precisely an answer. “You'll have to concoct a very convincing story for your family.”

She lingers for just a minute, reluctant to give up the feeling of Isabela's skin warm against hers, and then she slowly slips out of the sheets. The cold planks of the floor against her bare feet root her in reality once again. “Oh, Maker, I didn't even think of that! Isabela! What am I going to say?”

Isabela laughs, warm and rich. “Tell them you were helping Anders at his clinic. And I walked you back from Darktown to make sure you were safe—I'm very thoughtful, you know—and we stopped for a drink, and, well, you know how I am, I never stop talking, and time just got away from you.”

Bethany tugs her tunic over her head and presses down the rumpled fabric. “And what about when my nosy brother asks Anders about it?”

“I'll take care of Anders. Don't you worry about a thing.” Isabela gives her a smile, and Bethany believes her. Isabela always looks so certain of herself—Bethany watches her sometimes, tries to memorize and copy her confidence, but it's no use. Isabela is wholly herself, inimitable. She looks so regal even just stretched out in her bed; the Queen of the Eastern Seas, never anything less than resplendent.

It takes Bethany a long minute to tear her eyes away. She picks up her trousers, then her socks, and then her boots, and pulls them on, self-conscious of each awkward hop and twist as she dresses. “Can you help me with the straps?”

“Your wish is my command,” Isabela says brightly. She makes her way out of bed and across the room, graceful fingers quickly fastening the straps of Bethany's mail about her middle. “There,” she declares, rapping one finger against the metal. “You ought to make it back in one piece.”

Bethany cinches her belt. “Well, I hope so.”

“Do be careful.” Isabela reaches up and touches her cheek, fingers light. For the first time, Bethany realizes that Isabela's shorter than her without her boots on; something about the realization makes her head spin again. “Take the long way around. Main streets. No waving your hands at every templar and shouting _oy, over here, I'm a very dangerous mage._ That sort of thing.”

“I'll be fine. I always am.” Bethany runs her hands through her hair, trying to comb out the worst of the tangles. Even now, fully dressed with Isabela bare beside her, Bethany still feels like she's the one exposed, pink-cheeked and shy. She takes a breath. “Still, better not let it get any later.”

“Better not,” Isabela agrees. She smiles. “Until next time, darling.”

Bethany moves towards the door. A flash of red to the side catches her eye. Bethany pauses and bends down, lifting her red scarf from the floor. She turns it over in her hands and then, on sudden childish impulse, she takes a step back, right into Isabela's waiting arms. “Keep this,” she murmurs, pressing the scrap of red against Isabela's chest. “Like a—a token. Of my, um, gratitude. And affection. I just had such a lovely time.”

“Oh,” Isabela says, surprised. For an instant, she looks like she might refuse. And then she steps back and holds out her arm. “Well, if you insist, then help me tie it on.”

Bethany ducks her head and bites back a too-wide smile before reaching to wrap the scarf around Isabela's outstretched arm, knotting it snugly into place. “Like a knight and a lady,” she says, meeting Isabela's eyes. “Only with a pirate and an apostate.”

“Ha.” Isabela smiles, looking slightly out of sorts. She looks at the red band about her arm and back at Bethany. “I can only pray I won't have to do any jousting any time soon.”

Bethany grins. “You'd look fetching charging into battle on a horse.”

“I'm sure I'd look fetching hurled to the ground, too. No horses for me, thanks. Trampling's not as poetic as a good shipwreck.” She carefully straightens the band around her arm. “You're too sweet, you know. Sweet enough to give me a toothache.” She smiles then hesitates, looking like she wants to say more. Bethany waits, and Isabela goes on at last: “I hope you don't expect too much from me. I adore you, darling. We had fun tonight. But I wouldn't want you to get hurt—”

“Okay,” Bethany says. She tilts her head. “I don't think you would hurt me, though.”

Isabela opens her mouth, closes it again, and then tries one more time: “Bethany, lovely girl, I think you're far too sweet to get tangled up with a woman like me. We had a good night, and I'd love to do this again. But sometimes sex is just sex. Even if it's sex and a pretty red scarf.”

Bethany almost speaks up, almost tells her that _I'll get tangled up with anyone I like, thank you very much._ But instead she eyes the token on Isabela's arm and smiles, the picture of the nonchalance she doesn't feel. “Okay. I understand. I'll see you soon, then?”

“Soon,” Isabela agrees. She smiles. “Home with you, then, little Hawke. Be safe.”

Bethany lingers outside Isabela's door for a moment after she shuts it, breathing deeply and trying to still her still-racing heart. She feels like she's floating six inches off the ground the whole way home—like she's been asleep for years, and she's finally waking up.


End file.
